


Moving On

by JustLyra



Category: MotoGP RPF, Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLyra/pseuds/JustLyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very angsty, short, Jorge/Ricky one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> Italics are thoughts.
> 
> It’s not very good. It’s a bad day brain dump fic.

Sitting on the floor, all of the chairs moved, sold or in storage, Jorge winced at the loudness of the hiss as he opened the can, the sound echoing round the empty house and bouncing off the glass. _So many memories. Titles. Parties. Pain. Defeat._

The house had been a hive of activity. The three of the moving in, throwing covers everywhere to protect the white furniture that looked good, but was utterly impractical. Eating together, laughing together, and just _being_ together.

Then Ruben moved out, found love and moved on leaving just the two of them. The two Amigos. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Dumb and Dumber. Ricky and Jorge. Jorge and Ricky. _Him and Me._

 _When did it change?_ It wasn't an instant change. They travelled so much, so there was always people around. Other riders, friends, teammates, team members - just people all the time. Not in the house. Not at home. At home it was just them.

Neither of them had lived alone before. They hadn't realised how much Ru, with his real job, had done for them. Without a proper grown-up it hadn't all been straightforward. Their first 4 attempts at cooking pasta were all binned and then a takeaway called because the pasta was done. Jorge's only attempt at doing the washing left them both wearing pink-tinged clothes so that became Ricky's job. Then a stray navy sock meant they sent their washing to a launderette.

Listening to the feet coming down the stairs Jorge closed his eyes. _Please don't speak. Don't ask me. I can't. I want to, but I can't._

Taking one of the cans Ricky didn't sit down. They didn't do that anymore. Sit together. Drink together. Eat together. Anything. Together. _I won't ask you._

"You have all of your things?"

"Yes." _You can't even look at me now?_ "I took the photographs from the party room.... you said you had everything you wanted?"

"I have everything I want." _Almost everything._

"I will take them then." _I won't pretend, even if you want too._

"Good. I thought you'd like some." _I have to pretend._

Putting the can back down Ricky fought back the tear, "Well, I'll see you at the track then." _If you don't avoid me._

"Yeah." _If I can't avoid you._

Hearing the door close Jorge's face was staid. He knew he looked ridiculous with his sunglasses on indoors, but even with no-one there to see him he had to hide the tears.

*

"You can't do this!" Looking at Jorge with incredulity Ricky was close to tears. "You can't sell the house just like that?" _You can't sell the house because we had sex._

"I live in Switzerland, you are always in Andorra. There is no point in keeping it." _I can't be here anymore. Not without you. Not with you._

"It's our home.... You, me...and Ruben."

"Ruben has moved on. So have you. So it's time for me to move on."

"I haven't moved on." _She was cover. For YOU. You know that._

"You know what I mean." _You know I can't live WITH you._

"Why are you doing this?"

"I have to do it." _I'm scared._

"You don't." _Coward._

"It's on the market. Maybe... maybe no-one will buy it...." _I want to stay. Stay with you. Be with you. But I can't._

Fixing his face Ricky nodded, "Maybe you are right. Maybe it is time to move on." _I can't wait any longer._

"We had good times here." _I don't regret it. Please know I don't regret it._

"We did Jorge. We did." _I regret it. Sex with the man I love cost me my best friend._

"It was all good, wasn't it?" _Please don't hate me._

"Yes, it was all good." _Please don't hate me._

_*_

Thinking back to that night a lone tear trickled down his face....

"Fucking Marquez! I hate him, I _actually_ hate him."

Throwing himself on the sofa Jorge put his head on Ricky's lap and continued his lap.

"Remember when I hated Valentino? Well I hate Marc more..."

"No you don't," Laughing as he remembered the vicious rants about the Italian Ricky stroked his fingers through the Mallorcan's hair.

"I do. He's WORSE! Vale was a prick. A fucking, annoying prick..... but Marc...."

"He's also a prick?"

"NO! He's not a prick. That's what is so bad!!!"

"How is not being a prick bad?" Rubbing his thumb across Jorge's forehead Ricky was confused.

"Because he's as annoying as Vale, but he's not a prick like Vale. So when you hate him, YOU feel like a prick! It's infuriating!"

"Okay.... I think he's quite funny."

"EXACTLY!!! He's funny, he's good looking, he's good on the bike in the dry, in the rain, probably in a fucking thunderstorm and to cap it all off he's NICE."

Spitting the last word out, ignoring Ricky's giggle, Jorge closed his eye and tried to relax into the smoothing circling of Ricky's thumb.

"So, you don't like him because he's not a prick and he's nice?"

"Stop laughing," Sitting up, oblivious to the fact he was now sat on Ricky's knee, Jorge ranted some more, "It's so annoying. He's just.... he's there ALL the time. With his laugh and his SMILE.... and his happy..... Aaaarrrghhh."

Neither of them would ever be able to explain what happened next. How the moment of silence where Ricky was trying not to laugh and Jorge was trying not to let on that he'd realised he was sat on Ricky's lap had become the moment their mouths clashed for the first time.

It was irrelevant how Jorge had turned and had straddled Ricky's lap. Their growling mouths had battled for dominance over the other, tongues marauding around and teeth nipping lips. Jorge's hands pulled at Ricky's clothes and his nails had raked the skin. Ricky's mouth nipped at Jorge's neck and his fingers made short work of buttons.

They'd tumbled onto the floor and Jorge found himself pinned down by Ricky's weight; he didn't complain as first a hand and then a warm mouth wrapped around his cock. He thought he was going to explode when he opened his eyes and the scene before him imprinted on his brain forever; Ricky on his knees, Jorge's cock in his mouth and two of his own fingers pressing into his hole.

It was on autopilot or instinct that Jorge took a hold of Ricky's wrist and tried to dictate the pace, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was doing. He didn't know that he wanted to touch Ricky like _that_ , but he knew he wanted to see Ricky's eyes roll back in his head over and over again.

It was all good, when Ricky was over him, lining him up and sinking down onto him it was _good._ It was hot and tight and Ricky and _so so good_. Before he even thought about it he was pressing bruises into Ricky's hips with his fingertips and bouncing him harder and loving the noises of skin slapping and Ricky moaning.

Then it was over. He was sticky from Ricky and Ricky was sticky, and sore, from him. In the moments while they were on the floor, panting and trying to work out _how_ it was okay. Then he went for a shower and he thought and he _realised_ and then it was over.

*

Taking one last look around Jorge, sunglasses firmly in place, tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"I'll miss this house." _I'm sorry. I'll miss you._


End file.
